


A Beauty of A Beast

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [273]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: F/M, Feelings Realization, M/M, Penetrative Sex, Q (James Bond) in the Field, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 19:12:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19324351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: This isn’t his Bond.The man he’s watching from the safety of the low sleeping loft, from behind a veritable forest of potted plants--through his slotted fingers, if he’s honest--this isn’t the man that he knows.





	A Beauty of A Beast

This isn’t his Bond.

The man he’s watching from the safety of the low sleeping loft, from behind a veritable forest of potted plants--through his slotted fingers, if he’s honest--this isn’t the man that he knows.

Which is a damned good thing, it is, because this Bond is making love to a girl. Not a girl, a woman, their backdoor informant into the Russians’ latest nonsense, the bullshit that’s threatening half the globe from right here in sunny Rome, that’s dragged Q from his happy home at HQ. To “help Bond,” they told him. Well, that was rubbish. The old man doesn’t like it when you hold the lift door for him; there was no way in hell he’d asked for help.

And he hadn’t. Oh, very much not. A fact he’d made abundantly clear.

They’d had a row about it while walking around in the park, the only place Bond deemed safe enough to talk. Walls have ears, and all that. Being pissed off wasn’t worth getting caught. So he’d dragged Q by the ear to a big piazza or something and harangued him in a whispered shout for nigh on a hour, all the while with an affable look on his face. It would have impressed Q, truly, if he hadn’t been getting fussed at. Bond lobbing a few in the lab was one thing, as was a snort or a huff on the comm, but the whole getting upbraided in public business was, well, far beyond.

“Stop glaring at me,” Bond had said, showing teeth, as they rounded yet another damnable fountain. “We’re tourists, eh? Try to look like you’re having a good time.”

Q had glowered at him again. “No.”

“Oh, for god’s sake!”

“Better his than mine,” Q had said, “because I’m here under duress and committed on principle to not having a bloody good time.”

Bond had come to a stop and turned on him, blue eyes like knives. “I’m glad we’re agreed on that at least.”

“How much longer is this going to take? You’ve been here almost a month already. Surely that’s long enough to have--”

“Tell you what, Quartermaster.” Bond’s voice had dropped to a hiss. “You mind your own business and I’ll see to mine. If we do that, believe me, we’ll be on our way out inside of a week.”

“I’m holding you to that.”

There’d be a laugh. And not a pleasant one. “Please do,” Bond snarled. “Please bloody well do.”

Things had, in fact, progressed nicely since Q’s arrival. Another couple of days, Bond was pinning it now, and he’d have the informant fully turned and Putin’s latest plans for fucking with the Western Alliance well in hand.

Or so he’d said a half an hour ago when there was a sudden knock on the door. Bond reached for his pistol and Q for his nerve: it was nearly midnight, you see, and there was no good reason that anyone would show up at the flat of Dr. Nicholas O’Hara, full-time botanist and part-time arms dealer, at such an hour--none that Q could think of, anyway. None at all.

Bond possessed similar opinions, it seemed, because he’d made catfoot for the door, gun in hand and called “Yes?” in O’Hara’s soft brogue.

“Nicholas, it’s me.” Petra. Bond’s inside girl. Er, woman. “I need--I’m sorry to bother, but I need to talk with you.”

“It’s very late, darlin’. I’ll call on you in the morning, eh?”

And then had come a sob, the snuffle of unmistakable tears. “Nicolas,” Petra said again. “Please.”

Bond had raised his shoulder at Q and pointed and so here he finds himself, lying on his belly amongst potted lilies of the fields and oh, how they weave, how they spin, while on the couch below, Bond’s cock is driving Petra out of her mind. At least, it sounds that way to Q.

It had been bad enough when she’d kissed him, leaned into him and parted her lips and taken what she’d come for: the firm press of Nicholas’s mouth, the feeling of his hands on her breasts.

“ _Amante_ ,” she’d said when Bond had dared to lift his head from the pale peach knots of her nipples. “I need you.”

“But you have me, don’t you?” Bond had tipped his face up and found hers. Their lips met again, fiercely collided. “I’m right here with you, mmm?”

Petra had whimpered then. So it had sounded to Q. Though he’d never heard one quite so loud.

“I don’t know if I can do what you ask of me,” she’d said. “Talking to you is one thing, but taking, _stealing_ from these people.” She trembled. “I don’t think this is within my command.”

Q had felt ice water in his blood, a sick turn of his gut. Oh hell, she couldn’t back out now, could she? he thought fretfully. They were so close. Not now!

But Bond’s face had remained placid, if tinged with lines of concern. Not for their mission or for the fate of the world; no, in that moment, as Q had watched 007 hold that girl, if he’d not known better, he would’ve believed Bond’s concern was only for her.

“Oh, my dear.” Bond had nuzzled Petra’s cheek and squeezed gently at her breasts. “You can do anything I ask. I know you can.”

“Can I?” She’d shivered again. “I--Nick, I don’t--”

“Shhhhh.” Another kiss, this one harder, brighter; Petra’s fingers had gone tight in his hair. “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t to, hmmm? But let’s forget about all that now.” He’d grinned then, tucked it against the bow of her neck. “Shall I show you how good you can be for me?”

A ridiculous statement, Q thinks now, roses brushing his cheeks. A line and a half. He wonders vaguely if Bond's been reading _Fifty Shades of Gray_. Whatever the hell it was, though, it had worked.

Worked in so far as it had gotten her thighs spread and her knickers off and Bond’s fingers on her clit, playing it like a viola or something, all long strokes with the occasional dip. She’d come like that, one leg thrown over Bond’s, her head back, her long dark hair everywhere--but what had struck Q most about it all had been Bond. There was no question that the man was playing a role--Queen, country, and duty, all that--and yet, as Petra reached for him, as Bond bent smirking to kiss her, not a damn thing had looked fake at all.

And nor does it now, as Bond fucks into her, her hands curled into the back of the couch, her knees on the threadbare cushions, his hand molded to the curves of her hips. He looks like he’s enjoying it, the bastard. Because of course he is.

This isn’t the Bond that Q knows, the one who slinks around HQ like he owns the place, the one who comes back bruised and aching, the one who stops shaving straight away as soon as he’s back from a mission, who grows a beard every time he sends a foreign government into a tizzy and M makes a show of sidelining him, of sticking the old man on the beach.

But the man with his trousers down and his shirt open looks anything but old. Being clean-shaven helps, as does a month of Italian sun, but it’s more than that, Q thinks: it’s the gorgeous tightness of his muscles, the way they shift when he moves. It’s the sounds he’s making as she does, groans that bleed prettily into her sighs. It’s the look on his face, in his eyes, like there’s no room left for anything except pleasure: no pain, no mission, no duty, only this. Only bliss.

They should be up where Q is, surrounded by all the damn plants, having sex in Bond’s bed like civilized people instead of making do of the couch. But Q is here so they can’t and Q is here so this shouldn’t be happening and Q is here staring at something he shouldn’t be seeing but here it is, eh? Here it is.

Bond hasn’t forgotten that he’s here, has he? Q wonders. Maybe he has. Given the reception that he’s getting from his singular focus--and what a focus it is, gods; just watching him unfurl the thing had made Q’s whole body feel flustered--he has, surely. How else could he be doing--that?

It appeases Q, this belief in Bond’s amnesia. It makes him feel far less ill-at-ease at the tightness in his trousers and the unmistakable if wholly embarrassing blurt of wet in his shorts. Bond isn’t aware of his presence. Bond in this moment isn’t really Bond. This, all this playing out below him, is a performance for Petra, and if by circumstance and spectacularly bad timing Q happens to be in attendance and impressed by the players, well, that’s his business, isn’t it?

And it’s not as though such thoughts are entirely new to him, either. Bond, for all that he is a prick, is also very smart. And very, very attractive in his own way. And Q, when it comes to such sorts of men, is self-admittedly weak. He’s let his mind wander in Bond’s direction before and happily reaped the results and not felt too guilty afterward. It’s not as if he has feelings for the bastard, not exactly, but there’s no law that says he can’t _appreciate_. No reason to feel bad about it at all. Even now, when faced with the real thing.

At least, there isn’t until Petra groans, her fingers tucked between her legs, and groans again and, from all signs of it, apparently, comes like a wildfire, one that cries out Bond’s very fake name and then and then Q can see something in Bond give way, like a cake collapsing at the center; can see his grip tighten and his hips shift and a greedy, desperate fucking get underway.

Q’s heart stops in his throat.

By god, if Bond was good-looking before, the old man playing young, now as he chases down pleasure, he’s heartstopping. Breathtaking. A proper beauty of a beast.

And then he looks up, does Bond. Tilts his head up towards where Q is hiding and grins.

“Like that?” he says to the wilting Petra, to the bloom that is Q. “Is this how you want me, love? Just this?”

“Yes,” Q whispers to the nearest lilly, to the light in Bond’s eyes. “It is. Damn you.”

 

*****

 

Later, when the girl is gone and Q trusts himself enough to stand, they don’t talk about it. Bond heads towards the shower half naked and whistling. Q strongly considers dumping wine over his head so it’ll soak straight into his brain. Hell, he thinks, reeling into a chair, crashing. What the fuck.

It’s nearly two now and outside, Rome is dreaming. Q’s not sure that he isn’t, too.

When Bond emerges, he trails a cloud of pine behind him, along with a palpable sense of abashed.

“Q,” he says. “That was, at best, terribly rude. At worst, well. I’d understand if you wanted my head. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“That what?” Q says, rather loudly. He isn’t sure quite why. “Saved the mission, you mean? Guaranteed the loyalty of your hard won--no pun intended--informant? Sounds to me like you did your job.”

“Be that as it may, tonight’s not what you signed up for, is it? I went too far.”

Q’s face is flushed. He can feel it. And there’s an inconvenient flush elsewhere, too. God, why the hell couldn’t Bond have put on a shirt? “Yes, well. Never mind about it now. What’s done is done, and all that. I’ll smell like potting soil for a week, but surely there are remedies for that.”

Something flickers over Bond’s face and he steps closer, grabs. “Damn it, Q! Will you accept my goddamn apology or not?”

“Not if it’s delivered in an ungenerous spirit like that. I’m pretty sure shouting _I’m sorry_ at someone negates the purpose of the statement, don’t you?” That he gets the words out is impressive. That he’s shaking in Bond’s grip is not. Especially when their eyes meet, when Bond’s gaze sinks its claws in, those blue eyes like gorgeous dead weights; for a half second, Q’s sure he’s about to sink through the floor.

“Are you saying that I shouldn’t be sorry? Is that what this is all about?” The fingers on Q’s arm shift up and flex. “And here I was thinking I’d offended you, dear. But that’s not it at all, is it? Oh, no. Far from it.”

There is a moment before and after: before he reaches out to touch the old man’s skin and after; before Bond shivers-- _Bond_ , Her Majesty’s favorite fist--and after he sighs and pulls Q close, closer, wraps one broad arm the turn of Q’s back.

“You didn’t look like yourself,” Q says. The words come out like a whisper. “And then you looked up at me, and you did.”

When their mouths meet, it’s slowly, like two petals blooming, two flowers brushing, two trees whose branches touch in the wind.

“I don’t have a repeat performance in me tonight,” Bond murmurs. “I wish to God that I did. But I can take you upstairs and give you all that I can, hmmm? Will that be enough?”

Q grins against Bond’s lips, feeling mad. Feeling indescribably, stupidly glad. “Yes,” he says, nudging Bond back towards the couch. “But let’s do it here, hmm?”

“Yes,” Bond says as they stagger, careen towards something beautiful, something big. “Right here. Let’s.”

**Author's Note:**

> Watched a film called "Love and Rage" last night in which Daniel Craig plays a horrible bastard--an Irishman, an actor, and all-around terrible person. And what my brain came up with in response was this.
> 
> (Sorry to have fallen off the saddle a bit with MM over the couple of days. It's been a stressful week and I've put some odd pressure on myself when it comes to writing these little fics. Doing my best to wrestle with my own nonsense; cheers for your patience, friends.)


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